


Memory Fragments

by M_Xavier



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Cyborgs, M/M, SPACESHIPS GUYS, Spaceships, and Erik isn't as much of an asshole as i'd like him to be, in which i try so very hard not to fuck up Charles's characterization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Xavier/pseuds/M_Xavier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Space; the final frontier. These are the voyages of th-" Click. The holographic screen displayed in front of Charles is quickly shut off. There's nothing worse than the "friendly" reminder of his confinement to his high-end home, gifted to him from his step-father who gave it to him more out of his want to be rid of the child than any courtesy the older man could dream up and process into a lie. Instead, Charles opted for the news, pulling it up on his elaborate computer system, wired throughout the entire estate, with a simple command of his voice. It's Wednesday, Beleci the seventeenth, year four-thousand-twenty-two. The larger headlines are read to him by the newest model of Apple artificial intelligences, but it's a topic held below the latest political debate, overshadowed by the latest bleached blond-hair and fake-full-lips whats-her-name who had worked her way up the ranks of celebrity status, that sparks Charles's interest.</p><p>"Seven year space exploration mission. Crew needed. Must have knowledge of genetics."</p><p>Charles smiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as "Gays in Space"

_He remembers only pain. Pain; he is rushed into the medical ward. Pain; his ears fill with the drumming of his own heart, which should not be beating for much longer. Pain; his eyes shut, and then open, in an attempt to wipe away the clouds filling his vision. He senses the hot tears running down his unnaturally pale, unfeeling face, the blood emptying from his body just as one would pore a glass of sweet iced tea, when the heat proved to be too much. His body is shaking as he gasps for a breath that his lungs will not except, burning his entire body as the air is squeezed back up through his throat. He feels as if he is being frozen whilst on fire; as if he is being pushed out of his mother's womb whilst conversing with death. He's losing the argument. This, he knows clearly. He does not notice the pricks and prods attacking his skin as he is thrown into the control of machines. Machines that will beat his heart, expand his lungs, fuel his organs, or simply stop. He remembers only pain, and the muffled, distant words:_

 

_“Do it.”_

 

—―—―— ◄ X ► —————

 

 _Fortunate_ ; a word often used when describing Charles Francis Xavier. And indeed he was, having been born into an extremely wealthy, some argue it to be the wealthi _est_ , family throughout the entire population of the Genosha star system. On this day, however, the only adjective Charles would apply to himself is _tired_. As he stood, orderly as he could in this line filled with creatures of all personalities, the only concept that he could fathom was the fact that he was completely exhausted. His nerves had been sparking at their ends, and butterflies having flitted around his stomach throughout the entirety of the night, never tiring, nor managing to free themselves. It is as if Charles had slept on a rock, the oversized, and over-pillowed, bed most certainly had to have been an illusion, sparked by the delusions that excitement can conjure. Charles's bones ached, the pain seeping into his core, managing to spread that soreness throughout his entire body, like the pestilence that had long ago plagued the old earth society of Europe.

_Or perhaps I'm just growing weak, and sensitive._

Charles pushed away the thought with a shake of his head, the tidy brunette strands ruffling slightly in the tenuous breeze. The outdoors were feeling particularly forgiving today, and graciously provided him with the coolness needed to survive a humid day such as this. He combed his mussed hair back into its intended position with a quick sweep of his fingers, eager to look, at the very least, halfway decent for the technicians, and doctors, and various people of important status that would be watching him with penetrating eyes, judging his every movement in order to evaluate whether or not he would make a valuable contribution to the mission that they were assembling.

The many lines surrounding Charles, filled with creatures from all varieties of exotic galaxies and planets, shared one attribute: they were segregated. Split apart, cracked, between completely non-synthetic organisms, and those who's lives were aided by machines of numerous natures. Many of the mechanisms were readily visible, and Charles caught the metallic eyes of a young man who proceeded to glance down at his feet with lightning speed. Charles glanced further down the line, seeing an iridescent woman from the planet Mutare, dawning a pair of golden arms. Parallel to Charles was a man who's feet clanked against the hard tile pathway whenever he stepped forward, another who's face was riddled with metal scattered in no particular order. Many beings positioned in the line appeared normal, having no visible alteration to their external body. Internal replacements were not uncommon, and still required the same maintenance as any other mechanical substitution.

Charles faced his line once again as he noticed that the distance between him and the check-in station had shortened a considerate amount. His heart once again began pounding in his ears, nerves forcefully taking control of his body. Running his hand on the back of his neck, he managed to slow his breathing, and calm his emotions. He wouldn't let panic and worry best him. Not on this day, that he had worked _so hard,_ and waited _so long_ for.

“Next, please.” The doctor responsible for the line, the one that Charles had stepped into early this morning, spoke calmly, and assertively. Charles briskly approached her, smiled politely, and shook her hand in greeting. Such was the custom of noblemen, those of higher social status than most, or simply beings who wished to come off as pompous and arrogant. The tradition used to be popular amongst all humans, and even further back in history, it had been considered necessary. However, after the third plague had spread its vile death sentence across most all galaxies caring for human citizens and immigrants, people became unwilling to risk contracting any disease from one another. Physical contact with strangers, even acquaintances became extremely rare, and tended to strike people as filthy and pretentious.

Charles cringed at his mistake. As his step-brother used to tell him, “old habits die hard.” Indeed they did; Charles was raised amongst nobles, and only nobles. His family considered commoners to be “half-citizens,” his step-father going so far as to call cyborgs “its” and “things,” as if their minds weren't within their own control.

The doctor looked at Charles with confusion, and awkwardly wormed her hand out of his grasp. Charles mimicked the gesture, smiling in apology.

“I'm sorry, Doctor. It's an old habit that I have, rather unfortunately, picked up from my family and friends. I had no intention of being stuck-up,” Charles placed his hands on his chest in innocence, “or arrogant, or whatever other word you would give to a hand-shaker.”

“No, no. It's okay.” she replied, allowing Charles to breath a sigh alleviating his mind, “I've been around much, much worse because of my job, and your politeness is actually a bit relieving.” Charles's smile widened as he followed her into the check-in office, thankful to have been blessed with an easy-going doctor. The doctor pointed for him to sit down in the chair positioned in the center of the room, and Charles did as she asked, glancing at the many gadgets and machines filling the petite rectangular room, almost to the brim. Most of the equipment was foreign to him, having never had studied the medical trade, but he could make out some of the recordings that the computer was already busy jotting down on its simple screen. Category X was recording he genes and their history, whilst directly underneath it his breathing pace and blood-flow were being displayed. To the side of the screen, a digital reconstruction of his entire organic system was in the process of coming into existence.

“It says here that you're from Genosha.” the doctor piped up suddenly, snapping Charles out of his little game of 'identify-the-calculation.' He looked up at her, his expression questioning why she found this important. “I never would have guessed, your accent sounds much more 'New London-ish' to me.” Charles smiled at the use of the suffix 'ish', a small laugh managing to escape from his lips.

_How cute, she is._

“Ah, well, my mother was from New London, 'had us live there for the first eight years of our lives, and when we moved, the accent traveled with us.” Charles shrugged casually, his gaze wondering back towards the gadgets strung on the walls like old-Earth Christmas lights. The doctor's lips twitched upward out of courtesy, slightly distracted by the abundance of information that she was flipping through on her touch computer. When she seemed satisfied by her newly acquired knowledge, she stood up swiftly, and with a push of a few buttons, she commanded the machine Charles was sitting next to into action, giving off a soft whirr.

“I'm Dr. MacTaggart, by the way.” She spoke, while walking back to him distractedly, and without looking up from the readings appearing on her holographic screen. “Dr. Moira MacTaggart.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. MacTag-” Moira looked at Charles abruptly, with a startling look of accusation pressed onto her face. Immediately as Charles was cut off, he sat as straight as his back would allow, his casual demeanor instantly morphing into one of guilt struggling not to show itself.

“And you are aware that you should be checked by a technician, not a doctor?”

 

_Ah._

 

There it was, Charles Xavier's hidden hindrance. The weakest link in the Xavier family's perfect tree, of perfect people, with perfect lives, and perfect stories. Charles's legs had been crushed in a terrifying spacecraft accident while traveling from Genosha to Latveria, in order for him to study a recently discovered subspecies of Dolinkenites. His chauffeur was injured beyond recovery, and his sister, who has insisted on going with him, had rushed Charles to a hospital that had been nearby on 'whatever stinky planet they had landed on,' to speak in her words. She had hurriedly made the decision to replace his legs with robotic ones, successfully saving his life, but when they had returned home, their step-father was absolutely furious. His rage had shook the entire entryway, yelling ramblings about “the family honor” and “an image to upkeep,” and other foolishness that Charles had never cared for.

However, Charles recalls none of this incident. He remembers not one single icon or face that had encountered or aided him on that day. He even scarcely remembers why he had decided to go to that particular planet in the first place; what little recollection of his last day spent living without the aid of machines comes from his sister's stories alone. He'd often try to recall the events himself, but any attempts he made always ended in failure, and an unfashionably harsh headache that could, on occasion, pierce his weary head for days.

 

Moira cleared her throat with extra volume, fueled by her annoyance, swinging Charles back into the present situation that he had wound himself into with his careless acts.

 _Time to work your way out of this sticky state of affairs, yes?_ Charles began wracking his brain for a resolution. Physical resistance was his forte just as much as an old collector's car from the 'two-thousands' could fly. Such an attack would cause too much of a disturbance anyhow. It seems that he would have to rely on his charisma, which, fortuitously, Charles had quite a bit of practice performing, his endeavors, more often than not, displaying an elegant and smooth act of socialization. Back when he was studying genetics at an executive college his mother had sent him off to, he had transformed into an extraordinary charmer, having quickly acquired the skill-set required to seduce almost anyone whenever he needed a break from his studies for a night. Charles slowly inhaled a breath of air. It tasted of stale tension and was soured with gilt, but this he forgot as he quickly began remembering the very basic rules out of the multi-millions that talking to anyone demanded.

“Well, yes, I am aware of that, but I was quite hoping you could check me in without the tags and prejudice that comes with being identified as a cyborg?” Charles pleaded in a tender voice, ruffling his hair just a tad while a tiny mischievous smile worked its way onto his face. “You see, I’ve dreamed of partaking in a long space mission for as long as I could remember. But I’ve heard that the experience can be tainted quite a bit if you are automatically hated by others.” Charles stood up from the mechanical chair, grabbing Moira's hands in the process and raising them up to both of their eye levels. Charles widened his eyes, the curiosity and hope spreading across his face in an attempt to coax some guilt and obligation out of Moira. She harshly shoved his hands away, her face putting on a very prominent 'there's no way I'm buying this' expression. Charles sighed, his stiff posture diminishing as he leaned back on the side of the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He looked back up at Moira, face poisoned with defeat.

“Here's the truth of the matter. My step-father would...” His eyes traveled back to the floor, and he changed his voice into one with a more hesitant tone. Moira, however, seemed to peak in interest. At this, Charles nearly broke his feigned shy composure as his insides changed from a corrosive worry into the much more optimistic feeling of anticipation. “He would try to, to _kill_ me if anyone, outside of my immediate family, ever found out that I'm not completely...” He sighed, as if it were a hardship to admit that oneself is a cyborg. “...Human.” He moved his gaze back up to meet Moria's, his eyebrows knitting and pointing upwards in order to portray anything other than the guilt that was corrupting his insides once again. He wasn't lying, per-say, his step-father had issued many threats regarding the idea of Charles's ailment becoming common knowledge to the public, but never would the man actually try to kill Charles. Not if he wished to remain legally connected to his mother's succulent wealth.

“If you must send me away, at the very least, please keep my secret - well, I guess it's _our_ secret, now - hidden.” Charles finished, flashing Dr. McTaggart an imploring smile, one which she returned with a pitying sigh.

“I guess we can make an exception. You being a nobleman and all.” Moira said, her stubbornness and determination to remain strictly professional melted away before his eyes. Those words instantaneously set Charles's face alight with a grin radiating his escaticness across the entire room, nearly moving the machines themselves.

“Oh thank goodness, thank you so much, Dr. McTaggart. You've my eternal thanks an-”

“Yes, yes, I know the drill.” She interrupted, waving Charles off with a sweep of her hand. “I've signed the 'Okay' form properly. You should be able to get into the program easily. Just scan the bar-code on the form, and go through the doors,” she pointed to a pair of crystalline white doors near the back of the room, “And go straight on. You may have to wait a while until Dr. Frost shows up. She's a busy woman.” Charles laughed with glee, a sound reminiscent of a sequel, and headed excitedly toward the exit. He did as he was told, scanning the paper in the slot prominently labeled “scan bar-code here,” and while the doors were closing behind him, he quickly yelled towards Moira.

“If you ever need anything, my fine lady, just ask me for a favor!” And then the doors shut, leaving Charles to face an empty, colorless hallway.

Determined to exert his assurance to all souls who may encounter him, he took a few steps forward, his system erupting with anticipation and nervousness. He continued to strut with confidence, taking a deep breath to quench any fires of anxiety, and began readying his mind for what was to come next. The pair of doors behind him opened, causing him to startle slightly, and he quickly turned around to face tall, somewhat scrappy looking young man, who's oversized lab coat only increased the look of his boney figure. The man stepped forward with a loud _clank_ , his feet appearing completely titanium, one of the more expensive metals the one could replace parts of their body with. The man looked at him shyly, displaying a timid smile while he began adjusting his glasses that had become crooked, tilting down on the left side as if it were trying to escape to the floor and lead on forward to its own adventure. Charles nodded back politely, turning back towards the end of the gleaming hallway, and the two men resumed walking, the stranger trailing just hardly behind Charles, as not to intrude into his personal space while their strides fell into a monotone pace.

The pair soon arrived at another set of doors, at which Charles reached to scan his form, his excitement reaching nuclear fusion like heights. He was interrupted by the man trailing behind him

“Did you know the technology in these doors is roughly two-thousand years old?” the man said after passing through the set of doors. His voice was shaky with nerves, teeming with just as much thrill as Charles was. Charles looked back at the man, his brow pressing together as he compiled a response.

“I do believe that they are from the twenty-first century, yes. Although, I'm afraid that I'm no doctor of technological history, so I can't be too sure.”

“N-no, that's exactly right!” the man smiled, very obviously glad to be in the company of an educated being, “History says that an employe at the Dexel Institute of Technology overheard the dean of students turn down a request from a nutrient-mart executive, and he brought the idea to his friend Norman Joseph Woodland who, many years later, invented the bar-code system.” The man's smile grew larger, almost reaching beyond the boundaries of his face. Charles couldn't quell the feeling of amusement bubbling up inside him. What a rare thing, finding someone who would share random facts of knowledge with strangers.

“Goodness,” Charles laughed, a breath of awe escaping its crimson prison, “I'm impressed. Are you always full of such information, good sir?” Charles said, calming his laughter as he did so. The man grinned at this, with just a hint of jitteriness invading his smile.

“Um, well, I’ve heard that said about me a couple times, so I think it's safe to say that yeah, I am.” He looked down at his feet, lingered there awkwardly for a moment, and then looked back up at Charles. “And, um, you can call me Henry McCoy. Or just Hank, if you want.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Hank McCoy.” Charles nodded politely, “I'm Charles Xavier, but please don't feel obliged to add the last name. Calling me Charles would be a delight.” He had to fight the instinct to extend his hand, and opted to smile instead. “Now, let us move onward, shall we?” He inquired, and Hank readily agreed with a quick bob of his head. Charles scanned both his and Hanks' bar-codes, and the two snowy, shimmering doors widened.

 

 


End file.
